


Out of the Frying Pan

by Rockatanskyandroll



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:24:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8297407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rockatanskyandroll/pseuds/Rockatanskyandroll
Summary: Berezi has decided to take her fate into her own hands following her eighteenth birthday: away from her asshole father, away from her condescending neighborhood, and away from a life where she has no control. The plan is perfect, up until someone grabs her before she can even get out of her cul-de-sac.Strade has some fun. Berezi does not.





	1. Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Fire

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic with gatoafterdark‘s Strade and my own lovely Berezi. So…. Here we go with the trigger warnings:
> 
> Domestic abuse, blood, violence, abusive parent, mature language, torture, nudity, underage drinking, kidnapping. Pretty straight-forward for now, Part 2 promises to be much worse. c:
> 
> PLEASE, if you like the characters, definitely let me know what you think. I didn’t mean for this to be more than one part, but it ran away from me and now I’m considering each part to be an individual night. Enjoy!

_Happy Birthday, Berezi._

She sighed, digging through the fridge for something passable to eat and finding nothing but beer and bottles of condiments probably older than her. She was eighteen years old now, but given she had never had a job, nor a driver’s license, and her number of family or friends outside of her father was exactly _zero_ , she didn’t have many choices. Xavier was neither her friend nor her family, really, just the unlucky sperm donor who had gotten stuck with her when her mother died. Berezi elbowed a bottle of mustard out of the way, feeling her way blindly behind a 24-pack, fingers finally brushing tin foil. She pulled it out to inspect: half a Cuban sandwich, with a large bite already taken out of it.

She sniffed, trying to remember the last time Xavier had brought something home, before shrugging and taking a bite. With her free hand, she grabbed herself a beer, kicking the refrigerator door shut as she retreated back into her room. There was no door, but she didn’t have to worry about being seen; Xavier didn’t care if she drank, he didn’t care about much of what she did so long as she stayed in the house and didn’t talk to outsiders. He hoarded two things in the house: weapons, a result of some insane paranoia that someone was out to get him, and booze, which helped fuel said paranoia like gasoline on a fire. He didn’t notice if she snuck one or two. Not that she had to worry about it for much longer, she decided as she packed between bites of her sandwich and sips of her beer. She was an adult now, technically, and she had no interests in sticking around this hellhole.

She hated home, she hated school, no one would miss her, and she’d be free to go where and do what she pleased without Xavier breathing down her neck. He wasn’t here to stop her, either, probably out on some bender that he would stumble back from at dawn, giving her plenty of time to clear out. Not like she had much, anyways. The necessities were in her backpack, which she finally hefted over her shoulder. Berezi took a moment to look at her dad’s door, before chucking the half-empty beer can at it. One last stop, his gun safe. Not for a gun, the last thing she needed was the police to have a real reason to haul her in, and her knife would do just fine in the meantime, but for the roll of cash she knew was in there. Where it was from, she didn’t know, and she didn’t want to find out, but she input the combination and pocketed the cash, locking the safe behind her. It wasn’t like Xavier needed it. She did.

Berezi didn’t bother to turn the lights off or lock the door behind her as she stepped into the cool, dark night. No one would bother the house anyway, not in _this_ neighborhood. At 11 o’clock? On a school night? In the rain? Looking at the dark windows all up and down the street, she figured the PTA moms who sighed wistfully at Xavier and scowled at her had already tucked in their bratty kids and retired to bed with their dead-eyed husbands to have boring, quiet sex with the lights off and then sleep peacefully, not knowing what went on in the house down the street. Even the rare stray cat or dog had probably found a warm, dry place to escape for the night. She pulled her hood up over her head to keep the rain off, then drew it tighter, not looking to bring attention to herself as she trudged underneath the streetlights. The last thing she needed was someone asking why the antisocial, problem child of the very exotic and tragically handsome Xavier Extarte was out so late.

He had such a good act: the sad, single father, doing his best but still so in love with his deceased wife (they weren’t even married, the _fucker_ ) that he couldn’t move on. If they knew what really went on in their house, behind the manicured lawn and thick, bullet-proof windows, it would shake their ‘perfect’ neighborhood to its core. No one here could imagine the kind of shit she was put through. If they found out, she figured it would be gossip for _years_ to come.

She didn’t care. She just wanted out.

The light over the bus station flickered in and out, but it was a set point and she had enough cash to get from one side of the country to the other, so whatever uneasiness she felt was pushed down. Ten minutes. Ten minutes was all it would take and she would be free.

A flash of lightning illuminated the sky, and for the briefest second, she thought she caught sight of a second shadow, but it was the roll of thunder that followed which made it all go to hell. She reacted too late to a thick arm snaking around her throat, just barely managing to tuck her chin and turn her head, slipping violently from her attacker’s grip. They followed her, though, wrenching their arm free before she could force it behind their back and grabbing her around the neck. She couldn’t see his face in the dark, but he was obviously a big man, and his hand fit easily around the front of her throat. She wrapped her hand around his, wrenching down and sending a leg up to kick him squarely in the crotch, which gained her a grunt of pain, but not much more of a reaction. She turned and tried to run, but the wet pavement didn’t give her much purchase, and his arm found its way around her neck again.

This time, she wasn’t quick enough to escape, and her attacker hoisted her into the air, allowing her throat to slide perfectly into the crook of his elbow. She kicked, scratched, and pounded furiously at his hands and knuckles, but the sheer size difference made it nigh impossible to escape. She had four seconds before she passed out, mind racing to figure out a plan in the miniscule time before her brain ran out of oxygen. She barely even realized how quickly four seconds could pass when things went black.

* * *

She didn’t know how long it had been when she woke up. Minutes? Hours? Her hair was still damp, but that didn’t tell her much, and with her jacket missing, her clothes underneath were mostly dry to begin with. She was in some kind of small room, pitch black aside from the tiny sliver of light atop what she could only imagine were a flight of stairs. Berezi’s back ached, but when she shifted, she found that she had been leaned up against a metal pole with her hands zip-tied behind her back. Her backpack was gone, as were her boots, and whoever had brought her here had obviously patted down her pockets. She missed the short-lived feeling of the bulge of cash in her pocket, but right now, that was the least of her worries.

Some psycho had abducted her and trapped her in a basement, and unless her dad had bought a second house without her knowing (possible), it wasn’t _her_ psycho, which she knew and could never love. Being kidnapped and locked in the basement of a psycho (Xavier not included) tended not to end well for the person in _her_ position. She didn’t bother calling for help, knowing that this place was sound-proofed unless her captor was a huge moron (unlikely) or a first-time kidnapper (even less likely). Frankly, no one would care to help her anyways, the deaf, mute, violent girl with no friends and a habit of causing trouble.

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she was appalled to find that she was in some kind of workshop. That meant power tools, blades, blunt instruments, all sorts of toys for a sick-fuck to play with. This definitely wasn’t Xavier’s, he was always smart enough to hide his handiwork, use things that wouldn’t leave marks people could see. Maybe he had snapped? Maybe he was finally going to kill her to erase the last speck of evidence of her mother. Aside from her green eyes, she looked a lot like her Afro-Cuban mom, at least from the one or two photographs that remained after he’d caught her snooping and burned them. 

She shook off the memory as the door opened, momentarily blinding her, and closed. A pair of heavy boots made their way down the stairs, and with a click, the light hanging from the ceiling bathed the room in a hazy yellow glow. Berezi blinked rapidly, before getting her first real look at her captor.

She knew him.

Vaguely.

He lived down the street, probably alone, which was weird for a man in his thirties, especially in this neighborhood. Sometimes she caught glimpses of something else while walking home from school, but wrote it off as a cat or something. People didn’t just live alone like that. He wasn’t as tall as Xavier, but he was stockier, heavier, and certainly big enough to have carried her all the way back to his house without much of a problem. She had never heard him speak, but according to some of the women in the neighborhood whose conversations were easy to eavesdrop on from her bedroom window, he was German, and Xavier’s only rival in the ‘sexy accent’ department.

Not that any of that mattered now as he crouched in front of her, his teeth bared in a savage smile, and ran a hand through her hair, untangling the curls. He seemed pleased that she didn’t attempt to pull away. Pleased, but curious.

“Thought I lost you there for a moment, buddy,” his smile twitched, as if he was biting back a flood of questions, “After that fight you put up, I was afraid we wouldn’t get a chance to talk.”

His eyes, a weird golden color, held hers, and his fingers trembled with pent-up energy. Evidently, she had been unconscious too long, he was impatient. The palm of his hand, big enough to wrap around her throat, was also big enough to fit the crown of her head. Not a great thought. And upon closer inspection, she could see why he wasn’t discussed much beyond his accent. Aside from kidnapping girls (not that they had any evidence for that), his hair was greasy and unkempt, his stubble was less ‘rugged’ and more ‘lazy’, and his breath smelled like cheap beer. It was probably the same kind she had been drinking earlier. When he finally drew back, Berezi was satisfied to see that his hands were bruised from her attempts to escape. Other parts probably were, too.

“We’re going to get to know each other, how’s that sound?” he lilted, smiling as he turned to rummage through a bag on his counter: her bag. She didn’t answer, didn’t move, barely breathed, just staring blankly at him as if he didn’t exist. He didn’t like that, smile nearly faltering as he turned to stand in front of her again, holding something behind his thigh, so she couldn’t see. He kicked her foot roughly, which made her grunt in surprise, but she refused to relent.

“We’ll start with the easy questions,” he lifted her knife, flicking it open and inspecting it with interest, before his eyes found hers again, “I’m Strade. What’s your name, bud?”

Her eyes searched his face, trying to gauge his emotions. Normally she played the quiet game like a champ, frustrating a stream of guidance counselors, teachers, neighbors, and police officers at length. But this fucker, Strade, she couldn’t read him. He just reeked of crazy, but not the kind of crazy she _knew_ , and that made silence just as dangerous a game to play as talking. She had always been on her own in a way, but this was the first time she was really _alone_ , with only herself for support. If she messed up…… That was it. She had to feel it out, she decided, realizing the silence could only drag on for so long as she considered her avenues. She licked her lips and took a breath, averting her eyes.

“Berezi.”

Her voice was hoarse from being choked, but she managed not to croak too badly. She glanced up to see that he was pleased again, testing the edge of her knife on the tip of his finger and being delighted to find that she kept it nice and sharp. It was a butterfly knife, the only thing her dad had even given her as a birthday present when she was ten. She had considered using it on him more than a few times, but unless she had some sort of great plan that could hide a brutal murder and leave her in the clear, she didn’t bother thinking about it beyond a few vivid daydreams.

This was a **nightmare**.

“So, Berezi, I’m _curious_ ,” he spun the knife around a finger as he spoke, a little too slow to have practiced extensively, “What were you running from? That looks like what you were doing,” he paused to hold up her roll of cash, which he tossed away, “And I’m just curious as to why.”

She didn’t want to talk about it, which was probably why he was asking. Genuine curiosity probably played a factor, but the twitch of discomfort made his smile widen, and prompted him to stop paying attention to the knife he was playing with. He nicked his finger with the edge of the blade, a tiny drop of blood welling up, but didn’t react aside from ceasing in his fiddling.

She licked her lips, trying her best to stall while she decided what to say. Too much information and he might be done with her. Too little…. 

She took too long and he kicked her again, this time in the stomach, making the air whoosh out of her. She coughed, sucking in a breath with a wheeze, and shifted, trying to sit up. Berezi’s mouth curled in a scowl and she narrowed her eyes, spurned into silence out of **spite**. If she was reluctant to tell him before, she was adamant now. Strade noticed her sudden attitude shift and tutted, shaking his head.

“You don’t have any friends, liebling. You walk to the bus stop and walk back, every day,” he was grinning and leaned forward again, patting her thigh with his free hand, “I’ve been **watching**. Come on, I’m interested. Tell me about yourself.”

 _So_ he’d been watching her just as much as she had been subconsciously been watching him. Not a good thing to know, and the hand on her thigh made her uncomfortable in a way she wasn’t used to. Her first reaction was to draw her legs up to her chest and kick him square in the face. He made an angry sound akin to an animal and backhanded her, sticking her own knife square into her thigh, causing her to cry out. He drew back, breathing heavily, his nose bent at an odd angle and trickling blood. She figured he would just withdraw the knife and stab her repeatedly in the stomach, but Strade just stared at her for a moment, before laughing. He could see the tips of her middle fingers poking out from behind her back, but didn’t pay it much attention. Nor her scowl.

“Schtill a fighder?” He licked his lips, smearing the blood, and wrapped a hand around the blade, “I would prefer do dalk, dhough I don’ mind dhis…. Situation.”

She hissed as he withdrew the knife with a quick jerk, slicing through the hem of her jeans and tugging them off, the denim aggravating her cut. She didn’t have much time to struggle, and he caught her foot this time, squeezing it tightly in an attempt to break it. Her shirt was next, cut into strips with enthusiasm, leaving her in just a pair of boxers. She didn’t have enough breast tissue to fill a training bra, what was the point? Strade looked her like a carpenter inspecting a block of wood, and she figured this was it. She messed up, and now she had to pay for it. The big man shifted forward to straddle her, making her feel like she was going to be crushed, looking between her and the knife, before bringing it up to his mouth, tasting her blood. He made a grotesque sound of pleasure.

**Gross.**

“You ‘ave a lod ob freckles, Bärchen,” he tapped at her nose and cheeks with the knife, “Like schtars. I like schtars, you know. Maybe if you know me a liddle bedder, you will open up, yes?”

He poked his tongue out, lazily circling her face with the knife, before dropping the knife point to her collarbone, where more freckles dotted her skin. Strade hummed, lowering the knife to drag it from freckle to freckle, carving his own constellations. At first his cuts were just enough to draw blood, not too deep lest she start to bleed out, but as he moved on, he became more erratic, his cuts getting deeper and deeper. He was becoming more and more excited, if the…. Well, if his quickly hardening dick told her anything. It pressed into her sternum, an obscene testament to just how fucked up this guy was. He paused, leaning back to examine his handiwork, noting that he was running out of canvas.

He dragged his fingers along the cuts, drawing another grunt of pain from her, but she kept her mouth shut tight, exhaling shakily through her nose. He licked his fingers again, mind evidently putting a plan together. He has run out of stars, but…. She still had plenty. He shifted back, dropping the knife and grabbing both her ankles and flipping her violently, drawing out a scream of protest as her hands twisted painfully in the zip-ties holding her to the pole. Strade exhaled sharply, happy with the sounds she had made, and then looked to his new canvas, not expecting what he found.

Dark stripes of various lengths and widths, all scars of varying ages and depths, ran all the way from the nape of her neck down her back, her butt, and down onto the meaty part of her thighs. They were something to remember Xavier by, memories of mistakes she had made in the past. She expected the knife to press back to her skin, but it didn’t. Instead, she felt rough hands run up and down her back, tracing the scars with a pointed interest. He pinched a ropey, keloid scar between her shoulderblades, before tapping at small, circular burns that dotted the tops of her shoulders.

“ **I see**.”

She glared at him over her shoulder, feeling the zip-ties dig into her wrists and draw more blood, but he only smiled back, reaching to cut her free. For a moment, she used her newfound freedom to stretch her fingers and roll her wrists, before her mind was racing again. What was he planning? Strade flipped her over again, back onto her back, and without thinking, she grabbed his hands, holding them tightly to her chest, and bucked her hips. Hard. The movement was enough to send him up off of her and into the pole, dazing him for a brief moment. She rolled, clambering to her feet to get to the staircase, joints sore from being tied up for so long, head floating from blood loss, and the knife wound in her thigh giving her a limp. She could see the door, all she needed was to make it up the stairs and—

**WHUMP.**

She hit the floor knocking her chin roughly and biting her tongue. Strade had managed to get close enough to grab her leg out from under her and dragged her back to him. He hit her hard over the shoulder blades and joints, making her see stars, then once more on her neck, right on the brain stem. Her sight went black and fuzzy, but he didn’t let up. He dragged her upright by the back of her neck, slamming her back into the pole. He beat her about the ribs, the throat, and landed one hard shot to the bridge of her nose, before reaching behind him for a length of rope.

He tied her neck first, making his way down her chest and finally her legs. She noticed, for the first time since he had come down the stairs, he was not smiling. He stared at her for a long moment, and while her eyelids fluttered with the barrage she had taken, she stared right back. Finally, his breathing slowed and he exhaled slowly, reaching up to wrap his fingers around her jaw, squishing her cheeks.

“You are lucky, Bärchen,” she tried to bite him, but he didn’t seem bothered by it. He would either kill her now, or retreat to lick his wounds and return with a better plan to get what he wanted. His nose had stopped bleeding, but it had to still be hurting, and needed to be set, and he was sure to have a knot on his head if he didn’t ice it quickly enough. He stepped back, looking at the carvings and the developing bruises, and his easy smile returned.

“I am too curious to let you go, now. I get it, you’re a little startled. I’ll let you sleep on it, then we’ll talk again in the morning.”

Strade was walking back up the stairs when he heard the small voice, stopping him in his tracks.

“ _Strade_ ,” Berezi croaked, her voice hoarse from her bruising throat. It was the first time she had said his name, called to him, and he was sure that he would have to dispose of her soon enough if she continued to refuse to speak. It would be a waste, considering what a mystery she was, and how much he wanted to know what went on in the house down the street (could he top it? Could he make her wish that she was still there? What did that father do?), but if she was going to be stubborn, he had better ways to spend his time.

She wasn’t sure that he was looking at her, but he had stopped walking up the stairs.

“Yes?”

He sounded expectant, like he wanted her to apologize for trying to escape, or start spilling all her secrets, but instead, all she did was make sure that he could see her hands, tied to her sides, lift both middle fingers toward him.

How rude. He would have to fix that.


	2. Fanning the Flames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go with the trigger warnings:
> 
> Domestic abuse, blood, violence, abusive parent, mature language, torture, nudity, gore, non-con, rape, etc. Part 3 will probably happen, but Part 2 had a lot of ideas going into it.
> 
> PLEASE, if you like the characters, definitely let me know what you think. I didn’t mean for this to be more than one part, but it ran away from me and now I’m considering each part to be an individual night. Enjoy!

_She was eight years old. Her father had been in and out of the house intermittently, leaving her alone for long periods of time. She didn’t know how to cook for herself, nor did she have any groceries, and her stomach grumbled, making her feel small and empty. She knew where Xavier kept his money, in the gun safe, and perhaps…. If she didn’t take much, she could quickly run to the store and grab something to eat, then return before her father even knew she had left. She was still fiddling with the combination when two rough hands grabbed her by the shoulders, ripping her away._

_Berezi hadn’t even heard him return, too preoccupied with her empty stomach, but Xavier didn’t like it when she touched his things, especially not his guns or his money, and she had threatened both. She wanted to scream, but that only made things worse, so she bit down on her lip as he bodily dragged her to his bed and set her face-down, daring her to move while he rummaged through his drawer._

**_“_ Etxera utziz?”** _His voice was a rumble, and he yanked her dress up over her head, ignoring her whimpers and cries,_ **“Ez utzi nahi dituzu?”**

_They only spoke Basque in the house, had ever since she was a little girl, but he refused anything but English outside, at church, or when it was absolutely necessary. She had so much trouble when she started school, not only learning English, but learning what was allowed and what was not. She gave up on speaking outside the house entirely by the time she was seven._

“Ez! Ez, Aita!” _She squirmed, but he leaned his knee into the small of her back, pinning her,_ “Maite zaitut! Inoiz ez nuke utzi! Gose nintzen!” __

_She tried to turn her head to look at him, sobbing, but he pressed her face down into a pillow so she couldn’t watch. She knew now his weapon of choice was called a sjambok, or litupa, but back then, all she knew was that it hurt. A lot._

_She already had scars at this time, but when he brought the cane down on her back the first time, she knew that more were ready to be added. She screamed into the pillow, which muffled her gross, ugly sobs as he brought it down again and again, pressing down harder as she struggled. He ground her face into the pillow, smearing it with her own tears, mucus, and spit. She wondered if he would just smother her, put her out of her misery._

_By the time he was finished, she was silent, out of tears, and convulsing. At least, she decided, she hadn’t blacked out. He always stopped, waited for her to wake up, and then would start again. He lifted his hand on her head first, letting her cautiously suck in her first breath of fresh air, then removed his knee. There would be a bruise, but the rash of fresh welts and deep cuts in her back were more pressing._

**“Joan garbitzeari,”** _he walked out of the room, voice low and calm, most likely to go get himself a beer and light a cigarette. Trembling, Berezi forced herself to stand, hobbling painfully to the bathroom, where she turned on the shower. She could already see the blood on her dress as she pulled it off, snuffling and wiping her face the best she could with the front of it._

_It was too bad. She liked that one and now she couldn’t wear it anymore._

_The water was still cold when she climbed in, but waiting for hot water just wasn’t worth it. After she showered, she would simply go to bed and hope that in the morning, Xavier would have brought something home for her to eat._

_She trembled, letting the water wash over her and watching as the pink-ish liquid was sucked down into the drain._

* * *

She awoke in a cold sweat, entire body aching. She wasn’t eight anymore, but she was still in big trouble, if something didn’t give. She was still upright against the pole, but the light was on and Strade was sitting patiently in a chair, watching her.

“Good morning, meine kleiner wolf.”

Someone had fixed his nose for him, it was no longer crooked, but one eye was entirely black, and the other just had bruising underneath it. He was wearing a new shirt, and had evidently showered, but that wasn’t her concern.

He was smiling again, just as impossible to read as…. When? Last night? Two nights ago? It was impossible to tell down here, but something told her that he wouldn’t have let her sleep more than a few hours, given how interested he was in her. He folded his hands behind his head, leaning back in his seat.

“You look…. Well, I’ll be honest: you’re not looking too good, Bärchen. Do you need something to eat? Something to drink?”

Like hell she would accept anything from this asshole, even if it wasn’t poisoned. She had survived a few days with nothing before, and she did not expect to be here more than a week. She was going to escape or die trying. _Whichever came first._ Berezi pressed her lips tightly together and gave him her best glare, not even bothering to shake her head. Strade shrugged nonchalantly, shifting to stand.

“So, I have a proposition for you,” his eyes roamed over her face, then lower, taking in his handiwork from before, and he smiled again, lifting a hand to punctuate his words with taps at the tip of her nose with a finger.

“We’re. Going. To. Play. A. Game.”

Her lip curled in disgust, but he pretended not to notice. Instead, he turned, moving back into his workshop to grab something.

“I am going to ask you questions. The same ones from last night. But this time, you’re going to answer them. Or else…..”

He paused, walking back to his chair and sitting down, an electric sander in his hand, the _innovative bastard._ She shifted uncomfortably, trying to figure out just what the threat was, as he untied her legs at the knee. For now, she didn’t bother trying to kick him, knowing he was going to hurt her one way or another. Best to save her strength for when she needed it. He took it as a good sign.

He took one of her feet in his hand, laying it on his knee, and ran a hand up it, past her knee to her thigh, where he had stabbed her the night before. It had stopped bleeding, thank god, but when he prodded it with a finger, it stung and she flinched despite herself.

“You’re so hairy,” he mused, swiping his thumb across her shin, noting that her legs were unshaved, “I didn’t notice—“ 

He hadn’t let go of the sander, but he sat up to lift her arm as far as he could, straining the rope, checking her underarm, where she also had a small patch of hair. Strade giggled as if this was a funny joke that was played on him, and his eyes lowered to her boxers, smile widening. Evidently he’d forgotten about his game for the moment, more concerned with sating his sick curiosity. He tugged the waistband of her underwear down, pleased to find more curls, which he swirled with a finger, transfixed. Disgusted, Berezi lifted her foot and kicked him in the shin, trying to get him to stop. 

He paused, eyes darting up to meet hers, annoyed, before he remembered. He grabbed her foot again, holding it tightly this time, and sat back down.

“Right, right, no need to be impatient. We’ll start our game,” he paused with another sick grin, “But it’s good to know I chose a good petname for you, Bärchen~”

With the flick of a finger, the sander turned on, filling the basement with a harsh _whirring_. 

“Here’s how it goes,” he lowered it to the sole of her foot, and she tried to jerk away, but he held tight, pressing the sander to the skin. She threw her head back and let out a screech, biting down on her lip to keep from making more sounds for him. After a long moment, he turned the sander off, looking at the spot he had torn up. The sandpaper was soaked with a dark crimson, which dripped to the floor, and her mind reeled.

“If you don’t answer, I do this again, until I run out of skin. Then I go to the other foot,” he was biting his lip as well, but a deep flush was making its way up his neck and across his cheeks, “I see it as two birds with one stone. A fun game, and you won’t kick me anymore.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong on one of those points, with no skin on the bottoms of her feet she wouldn’t be doing much of _anything_ , let alone kicking or walking. Escaping would be nigh impossible without…. _Fuck_. He was looking at her expectantly, so she gave him a quick nod to tell him that she understood. He leaned back in his seat, idly toying with the tool in his hand, dabbing at the blood.

“We’ll start then,” he licked his lips, “Those on your back. Who gave them to you?”

He already knew the answer, but he wanted to be sure she was going to tell him the truth. She didn’t like talking about it, but…. Well, the last time she’d tried, no one believed her and she’d paid dearly for it. Strade would believe her, he had already seen the evidence, and frankly, she was sure it would turn him on to make her talk about her own pain. She didn’t hesitate this time around.

“My dad.”

He nodded thoughtfully, motioning at her with the sander, “How long has he, ah…. You know. Done this?”

“As long as I can remember.”

Another nod, he was choosing his questions carefully now.

“So that’s why you were running away,” she nodded, “What were you going to do?”

She paused. What was she going to do once she was free? She hadn’t thought of what would happen once she was out of the state, it was all a matter of getting out and from there? Finish high school? Go to college? Live on the street? She would have figured it out, she was smart. But she hadn’t gotten that far. Her eyes glazed over, the realization knocking the breath out of her.

She was drawn back into reality by the sound of the sander, brief seconds before it made contact with her foot again. She convulsed, a silent scream escaping her, and a few tears slipped down her cheeks, dribbling down her chin.

“Took too long, Bärchen,” Strade lilted when he was finished, inspecting his work, “Almost out of skin on that side, better answer more quickly. Besides, running away from home? With no plan? Tut tut, so irresponsible. You know, there are some sick, sick people out there,” he grinned savagely, “It’s lucky I found you first.”

Lucky. _That_ was a way of putting it. She sucked in a breath and held it, before shakily releasing, trying to calm herself, but the pain was a hot poker, her foot aching and steaming and feeling like it had been mangled in a meat grinder. _All from a sander?_ Sick fuck.

“Next question: If you could have, would you have killed him?”

She nodded.

“Torture him, like he tortured you?”

Another nod.

“Come now, buddy,” he turned the sander on again, just as a threat, “I need to hear some words from you. Describe it. Tell me what you’d do. In detail.”

She paused, thinking of her wildest daydreams, and he took it as another bout of stubborn silence. She yelled as he finished off the rest of her foot. She couldn’t see, but she knew all the skin was rubbed off, leaving it a bloody mess.

“ALRIGHT! ALRIGHT!”

He stopped, gesturing for her to speak as he stood to get a new piece of sandpaper, dropping the old one with a wet _plop_.

“Go ahead. I’m listening.”

It was the most she had ever spoken in _years_ , and all with a severely bruised throat. She tried not to cough or wheeze as she described her dream of sneaking up on Xavier while he slept, tying him down and taking one of his axes -- he collected axes and hatchets, a sign of Basque resistance or something; he had quite a few -- and hacking him to pieces, first his hands and then up his arms to the shoulders. Then his feet, and up his legs to his hips. Then his dick, then other finer points: his eyes, nose, ears, lips. Then hacking up the rest until he was an unidentifiable pile of blood and gore.

Strade listened with great interest, and she wondered if he was planning to do the same to her, let her choose her own demise. For now, he just walked back with a fresh piece of sandpaper and listened to her speak, the flush on his face growing steadily darker and beads of sweat forming. She didn’t have to look to know he had a hard-on. 

When she finished, he nodded slowly, dropping her abused foot. She sighed in relief, hoping the game was over, but just as quickly he grabbed her other foot, forcing it onto the sander, which he turned on with a flourish.

There was no rest this time around, he simply sanded down the entirety of the bottom of her foot, ignoring her shrieks. Or rather, _relishing_ in her shrieks. She bit down hard on her lower lip, trying her best to contain it. By the time he was done, she felt a trickle of blood roll down her chin, surprising her.

She had bit through her lower lip.

“Y-You…. _Fuck_ … You said…. If I answered….” She glared at him through a pain-filled haze, but he only shrugged, discarding the sander and dropping her foot. She could barely put her weight on it, but she could only barely keep her weight on her toes, mostly supported by the pole.

“I lied. It happens.”

Berezi was trembling still, feeling as it the sander was still there, buzzing away at her skin. With shaking hands, she sought her only respite, and lifted her middle fingers at him again.

“F-Fuck you.”

Strade shook his head, tutting softly, and stood, kicking his chair away and drawing a hunter’s knife from his belt. She didn’t resist as untied her, his smile twitching as she sunk to the floor like a ragdoll, unable to support herself on her mutilated feet.

“You’re such a bad girl, Berezi. Here I was, thinking we were past all that,” he flipped her onto her back as easily as ever, and straddled her hips, just in case, “I guess we just have to fix that problem, too. No more kicking, no more running, no more rude gestures.”

She didn’t get any warning as his knife dug into her middle finger, severing it with a low groan, and couldn’t hold back a scream, her first. He made a sound of perverse pleasure as he moved to her other hand, pinning it and repeating the motion.

Berezi’s vision swam, a mixture of shock and blood loss. The German man chuckled, getting off of her and going to rummage through his drawers again. She couldn’t even think of crawling to the stairs, staring at the blood beginning to pool around her right hand, the severed finger laying only centimeters away. It was…. He had….

Strade crouched down next to her, taking her hand and taking a small blow-torch to the wound. She hissed, but didn’t pull away, knowing that he was cauterizing it. Evidently, he wasn’t done with her just yet, and bleeding out through her fingers and feet wasn’t how he wanted to end this.

Plus it hurt.

“I was beginning to think you were holding out on me, meine kleiner wolf,” he spoke as easily as if he were just painting her nails, moving to her other hand and repeating the process, “It was nice to hear you howl.”

She grunted as he finished, standing to look down at her and admire: old scars, new blood, bruises, it all fit together quite well.

“If you are a good girl, Berezi,” he knelt between her legs, shifting her knees up over his hips, “And tell me how your daddy does it, I’ll clean up those feet.”

Two quick slices and her boxers were on the floor, but he made no moves toward her. Instead, he unzipped his pants, freeing his half-hard dick and looking at her expectantly. She choked down a few choice insults, now lacking her best response, and murmured, explaining the sjambok. Her voice wavered, barely more than a whisper, and Strade closed his eyes, imagining it and stroking himself.

“Louder,” he interjected, huffing, dipping his fingers into the pool of her blood and using it to lube himself up, still working at his growing erection, watching her discomfort grow, “Tell me _everything_.”

Berezi exhaled shakily, swallowing the pain and continuing, reliving every awful memory she could think of. Strade groaned when she described how her father would hold her down and put out his cigarettes if he caught her trying to take one, finally positioning himself and pushing into her. Her voice faltered, but he put his bloodied knife up to her throat, urging her to continue.

She did. She didn’t want to, but she had to drown out the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin somehow, and screaming wouldn’t help. He drew back, almost all the way out, before slamming back into her. She grunted in pain, tears welling in her eyes, and found herself unable to continue, but at this point, Strade didn’t care. He leaned forward, lips brushing her ear, his breath hot and wet.

“I saw your daddy today, Be-re-zi~” she moaned in response, not wanting to think about it, but Strade only continued, “He was _angry_. I can see why, you deserted him, poor guy. Maybe…. Maybe when I’m done with you…. I leave a gift for him, huh? It would be…. A shame to not finish the job myself, but…. He deserves it.”

Berezi shook her head, unable to form words, but she didn’t have to. Apparently, the thought of leaving her broken and bloody body for her own father to finish off was enough to bring him to finish and he moaned, pushing as deep as he could get into her and cumming. He paused a moment, catching his breath, and rubbed his thumb across the bridge of her nose, where he had hit her before. There was a bruise forming, one that almost matched his own, but really, he just enjoy the weak look of disgust she gave him as he left his hand on her face, pulling out of her with a wet _pop_. 

“What a good girl, you did so well, Bärchen,” he spoke softly, but there was nothing gentle about him. He gave her a quick kiss, mostly just to lap up the blood left on her lips, and left her laying on the ground, staring up at the ceiling and trying to ignore the feeling of his semen trickling out of her. If she ever got out of this, she would kill him. Slow and painful, if she could manage it, but….. As long as he was dead, she would be able to sleep easy.

She barely had it in her to scream again when he dumped the alcohol on her feet.


	3. Playing with Fire, Get Burned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go with the trigger warnings:
> 
> Domestic abuse, blood, violence, abusive parent, mature language, torture, nudity, gore, non-con, rape, death, mutilation, etc.
> 
> PLEASE, if you like the characters, definitely let me know what you think. I didn’t mean for this to be more than one part, but it ran away from me and now I’m considering each part to be an individual night. Enjoy!

It was quiet when she woke up again. Her feet had been savagely bandaged, but at least there was something to cover her skinless soles. It would take weeks for it to heal, and she had tried standing once Strade was done with her, but the pain was excruciating and she simply gave up. He must have realized that, given he hadn’t secured her to the pole again, and she laid back down and decided sleep was the best option. Rest up, regain some strength, and come at this from a different approach when she had more time to plan. She curled in on herself, trying to ignore her aching bones, and drifted into a thankfully dreamless sleep.

Waking up was unpleasant. Berezi was cold, stiff, and sometime in the night (day?), her bladder had given up on her and she had to scoot herself away from a small puddle. She sniffed in disgust, not only at the thought of pissing herself like a child, but at the realization that she was severely dehydrated. Had it been two days? Three? Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since that old sandwich. If he didn’t feed her, or if she was too stubborn to take it, she wouldn’t last for very much longer.

She closed her eyes, trying to will away her hunger, but she heard the door open and the tell-tale sign of Strade coming down the stairs. She did her best to pretend that she was still asleep, but he nudged her with the toe of his boot, repeatedly, until she finally gave in and opened her eyes, glaring up at him. Strade crouched, grinning, and prodded her cheek with some type of protein bar, still wrapped in plastic. She inhaled slowly, sitting up and rubbing her eyes, as if she didn’t feel her stomach gnawing at itself at the sight of food.

“You need to eat, Bärchen,” he waved the bar, unwrapping it and cocking his head, “Otherwise… We won’t be able to have much more fun, will we?”

She narrowed her eyes, but reluctantly reached out for it. Strade pulled it back, shaking his head, and Berezi forced herself to drop her hand, opening her mouth. He held it out for her and she stuck her tongue out a little, letting the bar slide into her mouth. The corner of her mouth twitched, and she let her gaze lift, meeting his eyes, as she slid forward, taking the length of it into her mouth. That flush from the night before had started creeping up his neck again, so mesmerized with her display that he almost didn’t realize that she had left a bit of it out of her mouth.

Berezi bit down, making sure her teeth clicked audibly, and pulled back, chewing with a sneer, trying to swallow it before he could stop her. It took a brief second for it all to sink in, but the man blinked, before pressing a hand to his chest in mock distress.

“Oh, meine kleiner wolf, you wound me. No more of that, maybe? And perhaps… You are thirsty now?” He moved to the fridge, pulling out a beer. In one swift movement, he cracked it open, pouring it onto the ground. Berezi grunted, knowing that this was a test, a game, and that she would lose, but she crawled forward all the same, careful of her abused feet, and tried to catch some of the beer in her mouth, ignoring the burning of the cuts on her chest and the stickiness as it spattered on her. Her captor grinned, crushing the can in his hand and moving back to the stairs.

“Ah,” he turned back at the top of the stairs, smiling with hidden promise, “I am going out, be good for me and I’ll bring home a treat, Be-re-zi~”

He left her in the dark, making sure the lock clicked loudly behind him. Berezi’s stomach grumbled again, but at least she had gotten _something_ in her system. From here, she’d just go with her original plan: resting up, planning to deal with this new ‘surprise’ when she was in a better place, physically and emotionally. She could still hear the sound of skin against skin, an animalistic growling, her own sounds of pain.

It would take a lot to get over that, and she figured getting out and killing the bastard would be a good start. Once she was better rested.

Once more, she positioned herself away from the new puddle, curling up to go back to sleep.

She pretended not to wake up when she felt warm hands grab her around the waist and lift her, settling her into a chair. It was Strade, obviously, but…. For some reason, she knew that not nearly as much time had passed since the last time he’d seen her. _Wasn’t he supposed to be going out?_ Perhaps he was already back? 

She blearily opened her eyes as he tied her wrists down to the arms of the chair, lips curling to bare her teeth at him. For once, he said nothing, just finishing tying her and turning to gather some of his materials. Berezi watched him with interest, but despite the food and slight drink she’d been given before, she was still feeling pretty shitty and weak. It was all a matter of time, striking when her least expected it. 

Her captor moved a tripod into the corner, one with one of those fancy cameras attached, and turned it on, inspecting the angle and the connection to his laptop, before going back upstairs, leaving her alone to listen to the shuffling at the door. She blinked, wondering just what he would be filming, and decided it was better not to ask. It wouldn’t bode well for her, either way. 

The real surprise was when Strade returned; the bottom half of his face was covered with some kind of bandana with a skull on it, like punk-ass kids would wear to try and look tough, but with his usual button-down and khaki pants, it actually looked threatening. But that wasn’t the surprising part, no. He hefted a young man down the stairs with him, casting her a cheeky glance at her expression of shock as he set the limp body down at the pole, tying the man’s hands and feet together.

If she squinted, this new victim looked kind of like her: dark hair, tanned skin, not very big, and she had to wonder if that was mere coincidence or if Strade had targeted someone specifically for her. Her mind went back to his earlier promise, ‘ _be good and I’ll bring home a treat’_.

Evidently, this was the ‘treat’. She watched in vague horror as he adjusted the camera, moving to grab something, which he hid behind his back with both hands. Hurting her was one thing, she could take it, but hurting someone else? In front of her? It made anger and hatred swirl in her gut. She couldn’t see his expression, but the way the corners of his eyes crinkled, he was grinning as widely as ever.

“I have a tough decision for you to make, meine kleiner wolf. I promised you a treat, and I delivered. _So_ , you get to choose,” he revealed what he’d been hiding, chuckling, “The cane or the ax?”

In one hand, a bull whip. In the other, an old ax, sharpened but not recently. She must have blanched, because Strade’s chuckle turned into a full-bellied laugh.

“Not as angry now, are we? Come on, Bärchen, choose wisely. Whichever you don’t choose…. Well, that’s the one you get.”

She could see his plan now. After having her describe in such detail her father’s abuse and her daydreams of killing him…. He was going to recreate them. In front of her. In front of the camera. What a _sick fuck_. Redundant, but no less satisfying to call him what he was in silence. He pursed his lips, nudging her cheek and petting her hair.

“Choose, or I will,” he turned his back on her and moved to assure everything was prepared, leaning both weapons against his counter, “Both sound like _fun_.”

If he didn’t kill this poor guy, he’d kill her. And then this guy would be next. It was hard to be objective when it was _someone else’s_ life on the line, and she tried to think of the best chance she could give this stranger. When it was her, it was different. She was strong, she was used to it, and no one would miss her when this psycho was finally through with her. But this guy…. He probably had _family_ somewhere, who didn’t torture him like her asshat of a dad. 

“Cane,” she finally grunted, trying her best not to sound too desperate. Strade turned, perking up, and moved back to her, tilting his head and petting her hair again. She pulled away this time, scowling with all her might. He was probing her for weaknesses and he had found one. Despite her life in Hell, she still had…. Well, feelings. Typically aggressive and hateful ones, but innocents never accounted for any of those from her.

“Good girl,” he tangled his fingers in her hair to prevent her from pulling away again, and the other reached into his pocket, pulling out a strip of black leather. Before she could do anything, a metal ring was forced into her mouth, and Strade was buckling the strap around her head to hold it in place. She made a sound of protest, struggling, kicking, and trying to pull away, but it was too late. She was looked over appreciatively, and her captor shook his head, backing away.

“Shhh, shhhh, be a good, quiet girl and enjoy the show, alright?”

And from there it was all about the camera.

 

* * *

“Hello, everyone, good evening!”

She could see herself on the laptop screen, in the background, but only barely. Strade and his victim were in the spotlight, she was only an afterthought. It slowly dawned on her that he was streaming this live, not just recording it for his own perverse uses.

Someone else was watching.

“We have a special guest today,” Strade waved his hand absentmindedly at her, but the man on the floor was beginning to wake up, and he couldn’t really spare her much mind, “She is the mastermind behind tonight’s entertainment. Let’s get to it.”

He patted the young man’s cheeks to wake him up, which he did with a jolt. The pleading began immediately, and while she couldn’t see his face, she knew he was looking for an escape route and not finding one. A moment later, she was sure he was crying.

“Where am I? Holy shit, man, p-please don’t—“

Strade bent down, pressing a finger to his lips and shushing him, untying his hands.

“Shhhhh, buddy, shhhh. It’s going to be okay. We’re just making a little film.”

That didn’t help. He was whimpering and crying and begging as he was flipped onto his stomach, trying to crawl away, but their captor pressed a boot down onto his back, holding him in place. He drew his hunter’s knife from his belt and bent to start cutting away the poor guy’s clothes, pausing a moment to admire, before grabbing the bull whip.

He brought it down the first time with a wicked _crack_ , drawing a pained scream from the man beneath him. Berezi couldn’t bring herself to watch, closing her eyes tightly and trying to will it away, but evidently Strade didn’t like that. He must have caught sight of her, because in a moment, he had paused and moved to sharply grab her by the chin, squeezing.

“Watch, Berezi. You have to watch. This is for you, liebling.”

She opened her eyes slowly, brows drawing together. If she didn’t watch, it would only get worse for both of them. She wanted to cuss him out, flip him the bird, but…. Both of those things were impossible right now. She gave him a sharp nod, and he smiled behind the mask, patting her cheek.

“Good girl.”

And he returned to work.

Berezi kept her eyes on the camera, glowering at those who would watch this shit, letting them silently know that _she was watching **them**_. And that she would find them. One way or another.

Strade didn’t care, as long as she could see what he was doing. He bent, pressing down on the man’s back with his knee and pressing his face onto the hard floor with his hand. The other was lifting and dropping with savage delight, leaving long red welts and stripes of blood. He only paused once or twice, giving her a few glances, as if trying to remember exactly what her back looked like and recreating it. About halfway through, the screams had turned into quiet sobs and whimpers, but that was far too boring for him. He moved down the back to the man’s thighs and buttocks, prompting a few more shrieks, but there came a point when the pain of whipping was just too overwhelming to even feel the strikes anymore.

“Awww, you’re so quiet, buddy,” Strade cocked his head, standing over the shivering, crying body, and kicked him onto his back with a boot, “We need to fix that.”

His eyes lifted, meeting Berezi’s, and he dropped the whip.

He turned.

And reached for the ax.

“ **NO!** ”

At least, that’s what she was trying to say, but the ring gag made it little more than a muffled scream with a lot of spittle. All she got in return was a knowing grin and a wink as he lifted the axe and brought it down, severing the man’s hand in one motion.

He screamed, but she barely heard it, watching as he followed her instructions exactly, following the hand with the forearm, up to the elbow, then the bicep, up to the shoulder. He hadn’t sharpened the axe, which meant that he had to put some serious effort and multiple chops to sever anything. He was still shrieking when the other arm was removed, bit by bit, but his voice had begun to die by the time his leg was the target. Strade slapped him a few times, trying to get a reaction, but he was going into shock, if the bloody puddle that he was currently laying in, but that wasn’t enough for him. He rolled his eyes, murmuring something in German and proceeded to bring his weapon down repeatedly on the man’s chest, splattering him into a red pile of mush. He lifted the man’s head, which he had severed rather cleanly, and held it aloft for the camera.

“Thanks for watching! See you next time!”

He turned off the laptop, looking over the pulp on the floor, before his gaze lifted to her. He pulled his mask down to his neck, eyes on hers as he reached down, coating his hand in gore, and unzipping his fly with the other. She wanted to gag, but the ring in her mouth didn’t let her. A few slow, lazy strokes as he moved towards her, before she felt a hot, slick presence pressing against her cheek, spreading blood and pre-cum across her skin. 

“You were bragging about your skills earlier, I want to test them. Open wide~”

Not like she had any choice.

He tasted awful. That was her first thought, her second was that she needed to relax her throat otherwise she really _would_ puke. Copper and salt and flesh, all mingling on her tongue and pressing against the back of her throat. After witnessing the death of her…. Doppleganger? She wasn’t in the best state of mind to have a psychopath fucking her mouth, but she forced herself not to react other than as directed. Berezi closed her eyes tightly, but a bloody hand on her chin made her eyes flutter open.

He wanted to look her in the eyes as he did it, watch her fight slip away. No, she couldn’t do anything about it, but…. Still, she refused to give in. 

Berezi let him do as he pleased, doing her best to ignore his sounds of pleasure, up until she realized how close he was. She made a sharp sound of protest, feeling his motions become more frantic and erratic, but he simply held her head in place, paused, and came.

The blood was one thing, but semen was awful; a salty, bitter, warm greek yogurt, mixed with… ugh. She wouldn’t allow herself to swallow, gagging on the taste, and tried to keep still as Strade’s hand reached to undo her gag. She reared back to spit, but he clamped a hand to her mouth, letting the ring fall to the floor with a soft clatter, and shook his head, tutting softly.

“Uh uh uh, good girls swallow. You need the protein, Bärchen, so swallow it.”

She shook her head, refusing, and he pressed more roughly, his other hand pinching her nose. She grunted, holding out for as long as she could before finally swallowing the noxious mixture, opening her mouth with a sound of disgust. He removed his hand and patted her curls, almost lovingly.

“That’s it for tonight. We’ll get back to our fun tomorrow,” he left the mutilated body on the floor, her tied up, and the camera in place, but walked up the stairs and turned out the light, “Sleep tight.”

That door closed behind him, leaving her in darkness.

 

* * *

She slept for a long time. She had no tears to shed, they had all been spent on a different psychopath, but she couldn’t help but feel guilty for the man’s death. She didn’t even know his name, who he was, how old he was, but….. He was here because of her. Not that she had any delusions that Strade hadn’t done this plenty of times before and wasn’t planning to do it again once he was bored with her, but this man was chosen because he looked like her. Otherwise, he might not have been dragged down here.

She lifted her hand to rub the bridge of her nose, and comb her fingers through her hair, groaning. She was tired, sore, and thirsty, any number of things, but the worst was the hunger, the clawing, empty feeling that she knew so well. She wiggled her fingers in front of her face, just to be sure they were there, before realizing that she had been untied. 

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she took the basement into account: she was untied, but still in the chair. The laptop, camera, and tripod were gone, as was the body. It was almost as if it had never been there, the place was cleaned so well.

That was a little scary. At some point, while she had been asleep, her captor had taken the time to clean up a gruesome murder, cut her bonds, and take all his things back upstairs, all without waking her. Had she been drugged? Was it all just adding up? She didn’t know, but she figured she’d never find out. The sound of the door opening made her close her eyes, feign sleep once more. It was best to pretend to be slowly settling into her prison than to let him know she was still determined as ever to live. The door opened, closed, and footsteps came slowly creeping down.

They were wrong, far too soft to be Strade’s, and light enough that she was sure whoever it was didn’t have any shoes. The footsteps faltered, as if afraid, and then came very slowly closer to her. Berezi sighed, as if in her sleep, and they stopped, waited, and then continued. Someone lightly touched her shoulder.

Her hand grabbed hold of their wrist before they could jerk away, and she opened her eyes, hoping she’d caught someone coming in to help her. Instead, she found some scared looking kid with some sort of fox ears on, either some clips or a headband or something. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out, just a sharp exhale.

He knew better. He wasn’t supposed to be here, she could see it in his expression.

Berezi didn’t let go, though, looking him over: simple clothes, scrawny, scars, terrified expression, some kind of collar, and a tail to go with the ears. Evidently, Strade had himself a pet, probably another kidnapee who he had taken a liking to and fitted with merch to sate his own twisted fetishes. He wasn’t a threat to her, not if the genuine fear said anything, but there was no way he would help her. Once you were there long enough, you stopped breaking rules, you didn’t do anything that would cause pain.

She had been there.

The fox kid tried to pull away, but she held fast, looking him in the eyes. He was probably around her age.

“Y-You’re not dead.”

His voice was barely a whisper, but she could hear the shock in it. She lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

“Not yet,” she cleared her throat, trying to keep it quiet, “Why? Did you figure after I….” she gestured to her face with her free hand, meaning Strade’s nose and black eyes.

The kid nodded, looking uncomfortable with the notion and even more uncomfortable that she was talking to him. She hadn’t seen herself in a few days, but it didn’t take much to know that she looked at least half-dead. 

“He was really angry.”

Her eyes lowered, noting a few newer scabs and fading bruises, then lifted once more.

“He do that? After I kicked him? He had a boner and…..” The look in his eyes told her to stop talking, and he gave another half-hearted tug, telling her all she needed to know. She took a deep breath, nodding.

“Got it. Alright, I’ve been there. I’m going to let go of you now. Don’t run, don’t go tell our German friend. He doesn’t have to know you were here. You’d get in trouble, right? Messing with his stuff?”

Fox ears nodded, and she let go. He rubbed at his wrist gingerly, and she wondering if she still had that much strength or if he was just that frail. His tail flicked, and she wondered what kind of fancy electronics he’d gotten for this kid. She’d never seen the guy work, how could he afford that stuff?

“Listen, uh….. Is there water around here? Something to drink? I’m thirsty as hell. Food, too?”

Fox ears nodded, moving to a sink where a dirty glass had been set, and filled it, returning to hand it to her. Berezi made a delighted sound, taking the glass and gulping it down. The kid’s eyes rested on her hand and he blanched. She finished her water, before holding the glass out.

“Could I get another?” He paused, “Please?”

The kid nodded, taking great pains not to touch her hand as he took the glass back. Two or three more, and she sighed, happy she was able to draw saliva again. She handed the glass back.

“Don’t worry about my hands,” the kid’s tail fluffed up in surprise, but he tried not to be too obvious about it, “So long as you don’t tell him to go fuck himself a lot, I think you’re safe.”

That didn’t do much to calm him down, but he nodded all the same.

“Strade controls the food, mostly, and I…. don’t like looking in the fridge. Sorry.”

Berezi shrugged, sighing, “It’s alright. You’ve been here a while. You know how it works.”

That seemed to confuse him, but he started making his way back up the stairs, shoulders hunched, trying to make himself as small as possible.

“Hey, wait,” he paused, wide eyes staring down at her.

“I can’t help you.”

“I don’t want your help. What’s your name?”

“……. Ren.”

“Berezi. Ren,” she chewed her lower lip, trying to decide what she wanted to say, “Stay safe. I’ll get out of here soon enough.”

The look he gave her was a sad one, as if he’d heard it a thousand times before. For all she knew, he had. He scampered up the stairs and closed the door, locking it with a click behind him, and left her once more in darkness.


	4. Chapter 4: Watching the Embers Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I decided to just finish this up, and sat and wrote it all in one night. I had the ending planned from the beginning, but I know the quality is.... Well, I might come back and fix it up one day. For now, I just wanted to complete the fourth chapter and let you all finally find out what happens to our protagonist.   
> Here we go with the trigger warnings:
> 
> Domestic abuse, blood, violence, abusive parent, mature language, torture, nudity, gore, non-con, rape, death, mutilation, etc.
> 
> PLEASE, if you like the characters, definitely let me know what you think. This is the end of this story, though I have been considering a sequel based upon the Ren route of Boyfriend to Death 2: New Blood.

Her eyes adjusted slowly as she was left in darkness again. The glasses of water had been welcome, but she was still running on nothing but some energy bar and the blood and semen Strade had forced into her mouth the night previously. She was still in the chair; her ruined feet tender to the touch and less than capable of taking her full weight. Hadn’t Ren said something about a fridge? She squinted, finally making out the big white box, and took a deep breath.  
Berezi was slow to put weight on even one of her feet, entire body shaking as she gripped the arms of her chair and pushed herself up. Searing pain ran through her and she tried to take a step, stumbling and falling. The soft, fleshy parts of her palms took the brunt of her fall, as did her knees, and she knew that she would have some nice new bruises to mark her naivety. With a grunt, she instead crawled, her bruised hands and knees screaming in protest against the cool, hard floor of the basement. She pulled herself up into a sitting position against the fridge, steeling herself for whatever was inside, and tugged the door open.  
The bright light was blinding at first, and she hissed in pain, rubbing her eyes, before she was able to focus. Fuck, she shouldn’t have been shocked, but really? Organs? Cheap Tupperware? How did no one ever check this shit out? Berezi took a deep breath, forcing her churning stomach to calm, and reached in to pick up a sandwich bag with what she assumed to be a cooked steak. She looked it over warily, eyeing the color and the bone structure of the piece of meat, before shrugging to herself and tearing into it.  
No point in holding back, she was determined to survive.   
She swallowed without pausing to taste the chunks she tore off with her teeth, shoving the plastic bag with the bone she picked clean back into the drawer, before turning. The light gave her a little more to work with and she turned, pressing her back against the cold, and shuddered. She could see more of the basement, the toolboxes and cabinets filled with God knew what…. Somewhere in the corner she saw an old car battery.  
Wheels began to turn.  
A plan formed.   
Berezi rolled her neck, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and crawled back to her chair, popping it open. She needed to be moderately drunk to think this could work.  
-  
“Meine kleiner wolf, wake up~”   
A booted foot kicked her and she groaned, opening her eyes to see Strade standing over her. His expression was…. Troubled, if she could call it that. He looked more like he was planning on how to put down the family dog, not how he’d cause her the most pain and degradation. He crouched, reaching to pet her hair, shaking his head slowly.  
“You know, I don’t normally keep anyone this long,” he murmured, more to himself than to her, leaning forward to rest his chin on her shoulder, lips brushing her ear, “You have been…. A challenge. I like that, but a man must have rules, yes?”  
Berezi’s entire body tensed, but she did not pull back. No, he had a good hold on her hair, and his other hand was sliding up her back, rubbing the skin raw—  
Wait.  
She jolted, just in time for the man to slide the noose around her neck and pull. Berezi’s entire body lurched upwards, despite her kicking and clawing, and she only now realized that she had missed the ropes that had been pulled into a hook bolted to the ceiling, which Strade now used to heft her into the air. Her hands groped immediately for the knot behind her neck, the rope straining across her windpipe. She managed to slide her fingers between her neck and the rope, allowing a tiny sliver of air that she choked on, but still her body convulsed and twisted in the air, dancing on nothing.  
“You’re even lighter than you look,” she heard him chuckle, pulling her higher, up until her feet hung at least a foot off the ground, “I could hold you up here all day!”  
Bursts of color exploded across her vision, gold and crimson that throbbed and pulsed and stabbed at her, her world beginning to shimmer and swim under them. Her breath came in shallow gulps, face turning red, then purple, and finally taking on a blue-ish tint. She choked on curses, trying to limit her movement lest she pull herself further down. Somewhere, the German had tied her rope and had stepped forward to run his hands up and down her legs, pressing on her feet and making her jerk.  
“Shhh, shhhhh, liebling, don’t worry,” he was grinning up at her, savoring her struggles, “It will be slow. Unless…..”  
Berezi wheezed, wanting to ask just what he wanted her to do. Die? If that were the case, he would have ended her days ago. No, he wanted something, but he would make her work to get it. She wheezed again, and a sharp, painful cough stabbed her in the chest.  
“Call for me, Be-re-zi~ Ask me nicely to let you down,” his hands came to rest on her hips, kneading, “Beg for me.”   
She sputtered and coughed again, trying to pull away from him, but he grabbed her hips tightly enough to leave bruises, pulling her down and making her cry out as the rope dug into her fingers and neck. She stopped kicking.  
“Pl….eeeassee,” she choked almost immediately on the words, “St.. Sss…. Strade….. Please—“  
There was a crashing and pounding in her head, like waves beating at the shore, her heart was hammering in her chest. Everything slowed.  
“Come on, use your words.”  
“Let me—Please,” the breath was almost a whisper, and she wasn’t sure he could hear her, “Please l… let me down….”  
“Call for your daddy,” she wouldn’t last much longer if he kept this up, everything was beginning to slow and the pounding was easing. He wrapped his arms around her legs and tugged harshly.  
“Now!”  
“D-Daddy—!“ she hated herself, hated him, hated everything, there was nothing left to make her keep breathing, “ Dad—Daddy—!“  
He’d let go of her and turned to grab a large pair of shears. Everything blurred, she felt herself tense, ready for the blades to dig into her flesh, for it all to end, and suddenly she was falling. She hit the ground heavily, unable to catch herself in time to prevent her face from connecting with the concrete, making rubies and emeralds burst before her eyes once more. She wheezed, gulping in air and tasting blood and wondering if he had just let her die up there. Nails dug into her scalp and she was lifted by the hair, body going limp in the grasp and only putting more pressure on her.  
“Atta girl,” he murmured, patting her cheek with his other hand, before reaching down to touch her neck, where the rope had rubbed it raw, “Atta girl.”  
Without another word he shoved her onto her back, pressing his knee into her gut, and leaned over her, hands massaging her throat. She coughed and squirmed, but he kept her pinned, nose sliding across her jaw, to her ear.  
“Keep talking, baby girl,” he whispered hoarsely, breath hot against her, “Beg or you’ll be strung up again. Beg for me.”  
She spat, pink saliva mixed with blood, and he growled, pulling his knife from his belt and holding it to her lips. She had gotten enough of her breath back now to speak, but all that escaped her throat was a dull croak. He pressed down, blood beading on each side of her mouth and mixing with the saliva that was dribbling down her chin and cheeks.  
“Strade,” she gasped, voice barely more than a murmur, “Please—“  
He shifted her legs up over his hips, free hand sliding down from her neck, across her collarbone, her stomach, and down to his pants, unzipping his fly and pulling his cock out. He rubbed it against her entrance, eyes burning into hers, and silently urged her to continue.  
“Please die,” she bared her teeth, the knife cutting into the corners of her mouth with each movement, and he laughed despite himself, “Die s-slowly and horribly, wit—“  
An inhuman groan escaped her as he pushed himself inside of her, and he leaned down once more.  
“You’ve been so quiet, liebling, keep talking!”  
He was thrusting so harshly into her, coupled with her old marks and new bruises, she almost wished she had died already.  
Almost.  
“Kaka zaharra! Txortalari, me cago en tu puta madre! Que te den! I’ll fuckin’ kill you and put your guts in your fuckin’ fridge, cabron! Pollas en vinagre! I’ll chop off your dick and shove it up your ass--!”  
The curses spilled out of her, throat aching and hating her with each word. Strade’s eyes glinted with amusement, then irritation, and he pressed the knife down again, before moving it into her mouth.  
“Think I’m, uff, done with that,” he murmured, “For now.”  
His hips slammed into hers and he thrust two fingers into her mouth, pulling it open and leaning down to look, tutting softly and prodding with the knife.  
“Chipped a tooth, we may need to, huff, pull it out.”  
Berezi was silent, head lolled back, and waited for him to stop and grab the pliers, but he only paused to adjust their positions and push deeper into her until he was ready to cum. He leaned over her, biting roughly into her shoulder and dragging a hiss out of her, entire body finally tensing as he released. He licked his lips as he leaned back, fingers tapping a tune only he knew along her thighs, and stared for a long moment, contemplating.  
“I need to think,” he finally muttered, pushing her back and standing, tucking his cock back into his pants. He didn’t bother to tie her up or move her, content in knowing that she was as broken as she would ever be, laying on the floor with his semen dripping down her thigh, limp as a ragdoll with new cuts on her lips and cheeks and a rope burn around her throat. The light flicked off and she heard the click of the lock.  
Berezi laid there for a long time, listening to the soft wheeze of her breathing, the only sound in the room aside from her heartbeat, before she finally tried to sit up. Everything hurt: breathing, moving, being. She was amazed that he hadn’t killed her yet, but that was coming. With a soft grunt, she dragged herself to the nearest counter, a cold sweat dripping down her brow as she grasped the countertop and pulled herself up, body shaking like a leaf. She leaned heavily on her stomach, gently resting one foot on the ground, and shifted to test her weight on it.  
It took everything in her power not to scream.  
\--  
“It’s unfortunate,” she was still leaning against the cabinet when he returned. Had it been another day? Hours? God, it was impossible to keep track of time here.  
“You know, I had a good feeling about you, Berezi. Buddy,” she didn’t dare look up at his face as two heavy boots appeared before her, “But I guess you’re just not the one.”  
He crouched, and it took a moment for her eyes to focus on the skull bandana around his neck. Her eyes flicked up to his face. He wasn’t smiling, instead giving her that look again, almost sympathetic, like he had to do something he didn’t want to.  
“I thought long and hard, but…. I get bored so easily,” she didn’t fight back as he ran a hand through her hair and he tutted, drawing his knife, “And you…. Meine kleiner wolf…. Have become boring.”  
Her head lolled downwards, hiding her face from him. His hand stopped petting. Her body began to shake. Strade’s brows lifted, caught off guard as the girl looked up, eyes meeting his.  
Berezi was crying.  
Sobbing, really, like a little child would. The man was taken aback, shock stilling his hand as she moaned softly and snuffled, trying and failing to stop the trail of snot running down her nose and lips, mixing with her tears and spit. She wiped her face with the back of a hand, before reaching up to grab at his shirt, trying to pull him closer.  
“Please,” she begged in the voice of someone younger, smaller, more vulnerable, “Please, I don’t want to die, Strade. Please. Please, I’ll do whatever you want. I’m so scared. Strade, please.”  
Oh, he had made up his mind, but this…. This was…. She was broken, he had done it, and that begging would be so nice on the camera. He patted her hair, undoing his belt and—  
WHAM!  
Berezi’s arm moved before he could stop her, his attention fixed on her crying and begging and not on the wrench she had clenched in one hand. The larger man fell backwards with a grunt, head reeling, but forced himself back to his feet with a guttural roar, just in time for her to hit him again. His head snapped to the side, re-set nose breaking again with a pop and streaming blood down his face. Before he could stab her, grab her, anything, her hands were moving again.  
The girl pushed forward, and something clamped onto his tongue. His eyes refocused, finding a jumper cable. The other clamped onto the head of his—  
White hot pain shot through him, dragging a muffled scream out of the man, but Berezi didn’t hang around to watch as his body convulsed or listen to the crackling of electricity mingling with his sounds of pain. She was on her feet, something neither of them had thought possible, sprinting up the stairs. Every step felt like she was walking on broken glass, and her pronounced limp kept her from gaining any real speed, but the adrenaline pumping through her didn’t allow her to stop. She slammed the door behind her, glancing around wildly.  
The place was kind of a mess, but she knew the cookie-cutter build of the house anywhere. Her body screamed at her but she pushed to the front door. Someone grabbed her by the arm, pulling her back, and she cocked her fist, ready to fight Strade off until he finally finished the job, but it was Ren. He looked shocked, scared, and Berezi shook her head.  
“He’s not dead, just stunned, and if you don’t let me go, I’ll make you.”  
Her words slurred together, but he caught her meaning well enough. The fox boy could see the wrench in her hand, and flinched, giving her just enough time to shove him back. Her hand grasped his shirt and pulled it off of him, before she was unlocking the front door and swinging it open.  
She had never associated the neighborhood with freedom.  
Not until now.  
Her feet screamed with pain as they slapped against the pavement. She pulled Ren’s shirt on over her nakedness, bruises, cuts, and all as she ran, the morning light blinding but warm and comforting all the same. Berezi slammed into the side of Ms. Johanson’s car as she pulled out to go to the grocery store, as she did every morning, prompting the older woman to scream. She couldn’t even imagine what she looked like, half-starved, crazed, broken and bloody, but she forced her way into the woman’s backseat, sprawling across the leather and shutting the door behind her.  
“Hospital,” she managed to croak, watching to make sure the woman was driving before she finally relaxed, the adrenaline wearing off and leaving her feeling as if she were being dragged behind the car to the hospital, not inside, listening to a hysterical woman call 911.  
She didn’t bother to look back.  
-  
1 year later.  
The coffee shop was filled with young people ignoring each other in favor of staring at their phones and laptops, tapping away at term papers, messages home, chat boxes with their friends. She didn’t stand out very much as she sat in the corner, sipping at a hot chocolate that had burned her tongue and tapping away at a keyboard held together with some duct tape and a prayer.  
The dinosaur on her table, covered with old band stickers and angry silver sharpie, was a loaner from one of the boys she lived with. It had a whopping 5 GB of memory, and ran at a snail’s pace, but it did enough for what she needed it for, what she had been taught by the group of loners and misfits she called ‘friends’.  
There were eight of them in the flat, sharing a space meant for three, maybe four max. Runaways, losers, dropouts, they didn’t ask many questions of her and she returned the favor in kind. It worked.  
Berezi rubbed her eyes, taking another gulp of her drink, before tapping out a few new commands and waiting. She hadn’t known much about computers before moving in with her crew, but a few months of constant swearing, overheating modems, and sore, aching fingers from typing, and she had the skills to do what she wanted.   
She licked her lips, eyes darting about the screen as she typed another command, before pulling a pen from her pocket and writing a few numbers on a napkin. Another once over and, content, she shut the laptop, stowing it in her bag, and stood. One last gulp of her drink and she threw it into a trash can on the way out.  
The facts were these: One year prior, Ms. Johanson did not see where the girl had come from, nor could she get her to say what had happened. Shock had rendered the poor thing mute, and no doubt it was all she could have done to have gotten to the car at all. Once the girl was rushed into intensive care for her injuries, not to mention serious dehydration and starvation from over a week of torture, Ms. Johanson told authorities that yes, she knew the girl, and that the best person to call would be her father.  
When her father ignored their calls, they went to the house, where they found an absolute mess: papers and books and clothes everywhere, holes in walls, a hatchet through the headboard of what was assumed to be Berezi’s bed, and Javier Extarte, in his room, naked, with a shotgun in his mouth.  
His daughter had nothing to say when she was told the news, nor did she let anyone touch her more than necessary. When she was asked about the rest of her family, she said nothing. When they asked her if her father had done these things to her, she also said nothing.  
They stopped asking questions and gave her some privacy.  
When they came back to check on her, she was gone.  
Calling the police had never worked. Berezi knew this from experience. She didn’t know if Strade was still in his house, or if he was looking for her, or if he was going to simply pretend like nothing had happened, but Berezi knew, as she tore off the hospital gown and pulled on some scrubs, that justice would not come for her.  
The best she could do was revenge.  
And so she kept that in her mind as she took a bus downtown, and then hitchhiked as far as she could go.  
She had no papers, no family, no life, but when you had a cause, you made due. She survived, just as she always did.  
The car she drove was also a loaner, a rusted piece of shit that had not been new when her roommate’s mom had gotten it for her sixteenth birthday. Maybe it had once been black, or blue, or hell, she had once swore that she saw a patch of green paint on it once, but some idiot had thought it was a good idea to spray paint it some god-awful pastel purple. She held her napkin up, going over the address once more, before parking across the street from the community.  
Same nice kind of place where it had all happened, she thought grimly, hefting her bag over her shoulder as she counted the house numbers, all the while keeping an eye out for the neighbors. It was twilight, just about to get dark, the kids had been called in for supper and bed, the last stragglers were inside. TVs were on, she could hear them through a few open windows. She paused outside her chosen house, looking around once more, before zipping open the bag.  
She rang the doorbell and held her hands behind her, face melting into the kind of disarming smile that made old men try to touch her on the bus. The kind of smile she would keep as she twisted their hands until their wrists snapped. There was a shuffling behind the door and the click of the lock, and it opened. The man who stepped out onto his porch was the kind of guy she had expected: white, balding, middle-aged, unmarried, cushy job with some big company. He had the money to spend on streaming snuff films, and to get someone to help him hide his IP address. It was a good attempt, but she knew people who did shit just as illegal as he did.  
“Excuse me, I’m so sorry to bother you,” her voice was two octaves higher than usual, maybe even a little sing-songy, “But my car broke down and I left my phone charger at home. Could I possibly borrow your phone?”  
He looked her over cautiously, as if he didn’t quite believe her story, and she quickly frowned, distressed.  
“Please, I just need to call AAA.”  
“Fine, one moment—“  
He turned in his doorway and her grip tightened on the wooden bat she’d been holding behind her.   
Funny to think that they didn’t remember her, but when you watched some sicko murder people to get off, she imagined they all kind of began to blend together at some point. She hoped that Strade remembered her, hoped he realized who it was that was making his patrons drop off the map like flies. Hoped he was in fear of the day he got the knock on his door, heard her voice, saw the sharp blade of a hatchet--  
Berezi glanced around the empty street once more as she shut the door and locked it behind her.


End file.
